Forbidden
by Hriviel
Summary: Who is this angel, this angel of Music? Who is this man with an immortal voice, forced to live as a ghost? A twist on Erik's identity, inspired by Edgar Allan Poe. Series of vignettes from a higher POV.
1. Resonance: Angel of Music

**Prologue: Resonance: The Angel of Music

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Author's Note & disclaimer: This is, for the most part, set in the world of the Andrew Lloyd Webber/Joel Schumacher film. I don't own it, it owns me. ) I made a banner for this story, which can be found at my LiveJournal: http: Please check it out, and enjoy my story!

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"_And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures."_  
**- attributed to the Koran by Edgar Allan Poe.**

_Son coeur est un luth suspendu;  
Sitôt qu'on le touche, il résonne._  
-** De Béranger**

"His heart is a suspended lute; as one touches it, it resounds."

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This is forbidden.

Israfel flinched at the thought. He gingerly ran his hand over his lute, made of his own heartstrings, before sighing and putting it down. Soon, very soon, he would not need it. An artifact of the divine, which produced a delicate melody as he turned away.

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade ..._

His mind churned; for some time now, he had desired it. Yet he knew it was forbidden, an act never before committed. Who knew what unspoken wrath would be visited upon an angel for entering the flesh. Even the famed Angel of Music. The others oft teased him about discord in Heaven would he be absent, but Israfel ignored such idle talk. He flared and stretched his feathered wings with a flourish. They neither knew or cared about the art or experiences of humanity. He did. He gave his heart to mortals every day. He remembered Orpheus' sorrowful songs, cries of a broken heart for his lost wife. And the Greek had been such a promising protégé.

The cacophony of Heaven was growing too monotonous for the Angel of Music, the same themes and motifs, an endless procession of emptiness. He wanted to experience life: the one thing beyond his grasp. Life, warmth, love, and for once, to be recognized for creating the music that humans craved. Such works of beauty that sprang from his lute, and they never knew where it truly came from!

Well, Israfel was ready to make his debut. He had planned his "masquerade," and all that remained was to take action. Yet he hesitated, staring down at the surface of earth; again, came the unwanted warning: _This is forbidden_. But he no longer cared. Already, mortal emotions ransacked his mind. Uncertainty, fear, bravado, but above all, an endless longing. The moment had come.

Without a backward glance, he folded his vast wings and fell, singing as he plunged.

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In a small town near Rouen, France, a baby released a powerful, melodic scream. But Israfel's punishment was no light matter. The child would be looked upon as a smouldering-eyed demon, for he lacked the fair and gentle face of an ordinary infant. But soon, music found him once again. He would live out that mortal lifetime in darkness and solitude; denied his memory, identity, and in the end, even love. The only thing that he was allowed was his voice. This man had the voice of an angel.

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Erik frowned, and fingered the edge of his black cape. He stood listening behind a cold, stone wall of the opera's tiny chapel, where a little girl with brown curls was praying in a tear-stricken voice. Oddly, her voice and her words seemed to resound inside of him, like an echo of long ago. She was asking her dead father for _the Angel of Music_ ...

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	2. The Lost One: Angel of Torment

**Part I: The Lost One: Angel of Torment

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Aftemelouchos donned the illusion of a mortal being. Of course, angels could achieve such things easily, becoming material and common-looking folk. Yet while they appeared ordinary, it was temporary, and hardly affected the being. He swooped gracefully, invisibly, down to the surface of the earth; he folded his wings, and gathered up his robes. In an instant, he stood gloomily, in the guise of a gentlemen in tailored brown tweed and a bowler hat, suited for the chilly autumn evening in Paris of 1846. He watched the human traffic of the Rue Scribe for several moments. The mortals moved along in the falling dark. Beggars lined the alleys, dogs wandered, seeking garbage scraps. There was something akin to a curse in the burning air, which was rank with urban filth. Aftemelouchos sniffed the atmosphere, dug one heel into the ground, and turned toward the flickering torchlight. There was a procession of people making their way to the gypsy fair.

He had bore witness to the events that followed many times from his post, but decided that this night he would see _him_, eye to eye. Tonight, he wanted to know if the stories were true; if _he_ had vanished into the womb, if all that remained was the mortal shell; if, when he had fallen, his face had touched the flames of Hell...

He moved through the fair impassively, unmoved by the leering fortune-teller, with her raven hair, the contortionists, the fire-breathers, the various sideshow freaks ... The unfortunately less-than-ordinary mortals who found nowhere to belong. A woman brushed against his left arm; he turned his head to the right, and said, "I am carrying no money, and have no pockets, Enyos."

The pickpocket, caught red-handed, could only blink, as a shocked blush rose up his dark cheeks. Aftemelouchos smiled soberly at him, before following the chattering monkey across the grounds.

Girlish gasps came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulders, to see a troop of young dancers in delicate white frocks and black ballet capes. Most looked under ten and greatly amused by the tricks, but one was older, and saw only a nightmarish display. A large, bearded man, his eyes rimmed with black, beckoned the crowd to a small canvas tent. The disguised angel lifted his gaze up to the painted red banner, painted with letters that dripped blood, "The Devil's Child." This was it. He ducked into it, seeing the iron cage, surrounded by only a handful of other people gawking anxiously and whispering. The ballet rats behind him all pushed themselves through the mass, and peered between the bars. Aftemelouchos found a spot between two other spectators, and leaned closer.

There he was. A skinny boy of nine years, wretchedly dirty, in brown trousers, with his feet wrapped in rags. A burlap bag covered his head, the corners tied, to give the shape of ears, with two tiny eyeholes cut out. He sat upon scattered straw, playing with a makeshift monkey doll, pretending to ignore those gathered to see a demon. The bearded gypsy man entered the cage, bearing a short whip. Throwing him to the ground, he unceremoniously grabbed the boy's head, and beat the whip against the child's abdomen. Aftemelouchos felt faint echoes of the pain inflicted upon the boy. But, melting away into the shadows, he felt nothing of what happened next. Such was of the mortal world, not the angelic one.

The gypsy dramatically lifted the bag from the boy's head. The poor child was trembling violently, his hands raised to hide his face, but with a threatening look from his owner, he pathetically dropped them.

The angel took in the sight. The Devil's Child had a head of tangled, filthy dark hair; the left side of his face was well-made, with elegant planes, and one green eye fringed with black lashes. The right side, however, was what earned him his place there. His pale right eye drooped open, framed below with a sack of flesh, his brow only a small patch at the outer corner, and parts of his cheek and a quarter of his scalp seemed torn away. The right side of his nose looked as if it had melted into his cheek. The skin of his face from his forehead to his jaw was lined and marred with red scars - like he had been burned in a horrid fire ...

_Hellfire_, Aftemelouchos whispered. So it was true. He had almost succeeded in completely confirming himself to the flesh. No doubt, he would grow up looking like half of the angel he was, and half the demon he may become.

Aftemelouchos turned away, surprised to see Azrael beside him. But before he could say anything, Azrael lifted his finger to his lips and gestured toward the cage. The older ballet girl was about to leave the tent, when the boy, having slunk back into his bag, removed one of the ropes binding him, and wrapped it around the throat of the gypsy greedily gathering gold. Within several minutes, he was dead. Azrael collected the tiny, blackened soul, and spread his wings. Aftemelouchos did the same, watching the girl take him by the hand and run away. The two angels flew, wondering what fate was planned for the lost one.

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_Note: Aftemelouchos is the Angel of Torment._


	3. No Going Back: Angel of Irrevocable Cho...

**Part II: No Going Back: Angel of Irrevocable Choice **

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Zeffar was unsure why he had been sent here. He looked around; it was cold down here, indescribably cold and damp, and cobwebs hung limply from the low ceilings. He was in a narrow stone corridor below ground; that much was obvious. He stood behind a plaster frieze of, ironically, an angel, dressed in pastel robes with outstretched wings. There was a tiny peephole in the painted angel's eye that allowed a single ray of light shine through in the dark passageway. He could sense that on the other side lay a chapel. He could hear the echoes of old prayers within the stone chamber.

Zeffar heard someone approaching. It was then that he knew why he was there. A young man moved quietly along the treacherous passage with the ease of long practise. He was clad in evening attire, resplendent with a long black cloak lined with silk to ward off the subterranean chill. His hair was also suspiciously black, and slicked back neatly. A shaped and designed piece of white leather covered the right side of his face. But the exposed left side was achingly familiar ...

_It's _him, Zeffar thought.

The masked man had almost passed the peephole when the angel abruptly shifted his wings. The mortal gave an uncharacteristic start, and there was a litle gasp from the other side of the wall. The angel wondered if _he_ could have heard the rustling of his ruffled ivory feathers. Or was it the owner of the small voice on the other side that felt the unearthly presence?

"Papa?" asked the small voice tentatively. The man held his breath, and peered precariously through the tiny hole. Zeffar looked as well, through his eyes.

He saw a little girl of seven years with limp chestnut curls, dark doe eyes, and a pale face; she was dressed in a simple white nightshift and thick slippers. She padded softly over to the rack of candles and portraits. Very carefully, she lit the candle before the most recently-added portrait, pressed her little palms together, and bowed her curly head. There were several beats of terse silence. The masked man was about to turn away, when the child's voice rose in a trembling, tearful song:

_Help me, Papa, I feel so lost:  
__Wandering and alone.  
__I miss you more each passing day,  
__And the times we have known._

_Papa, can you hear me on this dark night,  
__Tell me, Papa, can you hear?  
__Now that you're gone, I've lost all my song,  
__And given in to my fear._

_You promised me a new guardian, an angel;  
__You promised me ..._

_Angel of Music, where are you now?_

The man in the mask closed his eyes. Gripping his cloak's edging with gloved hands, he drew several shallow breaths. Zeffar watched the rich black fabric shiver as the tightly-clenched hands shook. Did he know, _could he_ recall those long-ago days?

"_Beautiful child ... so lost, so helpless_," he sang softly, "_Yearning for my guidance_."

The girl's brown eyes widened with shock and joy. Zeffar's did, as well. His voice was still divine. "_Angel, I hear youspeak, I listen; stay by my side, guide me_! Will you sing to me, Angel...?"

"Go to your bed, child, and I will sing you a lullaby tonight," he said gently, moving to take the hidden passage that led to the ballet dormitories.

His choice was made; and the angel would see to it that there was no going back now. Zeffar flew off, remembering the sound of his voice.

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_Note: Zeffar is the Angel of Irrevocable Choices._


	4. A Heavenly Bargain: Angel of Silence

**Part III: A Heavenly Bargain: Angel of Silence **

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_"It's over now, the Music of the Night!"_ And with that broken cry, he smashed the mirrors that faced him as they always had, cold and blank. With every strike of the candelestick, the lattice of their breaks spread over the glass; his heart, his soul, his hopes, and his dreams had all been shattered, and lay in painful shards, just like the silvered bits that fell to the ground.

Shateiel watched in silence, as was customary. He was a mute of an angel, and had never been overly fond of _him_. His music created such a racket, that lute crying out over every other sound in Heaven. The constant melodies and songs that flitted down to earth began with him. Thirty-three years it had been. Thirty-three years of silence in Heaven. Music had been taken over by another, but it wasn't the same. But now... The man, choking on sobs of grief, destroyed the final mirror, and passed the golden threshold, closing the crimson curtain behind him.

Shateiel had never liked _him_, but he couldn't help but feel compassion for the man racing blindly down a dark corridor. The angel followed him to a tiny alcove, hidden to everyone, except the one who now stopped beside it, and collapsed inside. He watched as the mortal stared down at the sparkling ring in his hand, and wept. For long moments he was powerless to stop his tears of despair and regret. The cold diamonds merely glittered in reply. Shateiel knew the mob would not find him, nor would the fire reach this far.

"Show yourself."

The angel started. The voice was quenched, but steady.

Slowly, as not to frighten the man, Shateiel revealed himself to the man; a tall being of fair face and hair, with intense eyes, robed in white, crowned with light, and a burst of white feathers behind him. He saw the glow of otherworldly light shining on the rock, illuminating the man's disfigured face; at first shocked, then simply incredulous.

"I-I never believed. Not truly," he whispered. "But I could always feel something..."

Shateiel knelt before him, and touched his index finger to the man's parted lips. With the man's own voice, Shateiel spoke. "_Is it truly over, your music of the night?_ Would you like to ease the pain you feel now? I could grant you an eternity's peace, and you would never feel this heartbreak again. I am offering you this exchange: If you give up your voice, you will be granted your immortal memories and all traces of this mortal lifetime will vanish from your mind, Israfel."

The mortal's jaw dropped open. _Israfel?_ he mouthed. Realizing that he couldn't speak, he pressed his hand to his throat, looking distressed.

"Yes, you _are_ the Angel of Music. I gave you my silence to speak with you. Fear not, if you choose to keep your voice, it will be yours again. But you will not recall this meeting." Shateiel smiled kindly at him. "Heaven has been very quiet, Israfel. None of the music you so loved floats across the planes. If we were to switch positions, and you becom the Angel of Silence, you could know contentment once more; reign over serenity and quiet. Just think of it. A secret bargain."

_Think of it?_ Once more, his lips formed the words, but no sound came from them. The man slowly brought up his hand and touched his temple with his fingertips, then pressed his palm to his scarred cheek; he then swiftly ran his hand back, over the expanse of exposed scalp. He looked down at the ring that he still clutched. He mouthed another word: _Christine_.

With resolve, he looked up at the angel, and shook his head firmly.

Shateiel rose, and answered, "And the rest is silence."

Instantly, the angel disappeared, leaving the Phantom of the Opera huddled and weeping, with bittersweet memories of an unrequited love, and a voice to move the heavens.

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_Note: Shateiel is the Angel of Silence._


	5. Echoes: Angel of Death

**Epilogue: Echoes: Angel of Death**

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_"If I could dwell  
Where Israfel  
Hath dwelt, and he where I,  
He might not sing so wildly well  
A mortal melody,  
While a bolder note than this might swell  
From my lyre within the sky."_

_**- Edgar Allan Poe, "Israfel."

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"Wh-who are you!"

Azrael shivered. That voice-it was still the same; but the face ...

The grim angel looked down at the man cringing before him, wracked with pain and age; there were such shadows in his green eyes. The man was seized in a paroxysm of violent coughing, and he backed away, dizzy. His vision was growing dim. His once-fine evening clothes were tattered and dusty, and his disfigured face exposed. The Angel of Death said quietly, "Don't be afraid ... Erik."

When he heard his voice, the man stared up into the angel's dark eyes. "How did you—?"

Was that recognition? It pained Azrael, who remembered his companion, the creative one, with a fondness for flapping his wings with great gusto, and playing his lute to make all of Heaven listen rapturously. The unbound passion and great ambitions. But he also remembered the ruthless expression on Erik's face as he strangled Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi. Azrael had stood there, above him, watching the fallen idol commit murder. "Too long you've wandered in winter, my dear friend. Come back to us."

Azrael extended his hand slowly, beckoningly. The pain in Erik's chest crescendoed, and he collapsed onto the ground, with one last whisper, "_Christine."_

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Israfel looked down at the corpse with sorrow. Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, was dead. He lay in a heap of old black silk. Israfel, the Angel of Music, was restored; but he would never be the same. He wept for the memories of his mortal lifetime. He knew things angels had never known before: loneliness, fear, hatred, death, and love. He dropped to his knees before the body he had inhabited for many years. These human emotions would be immortalized in his music forevermore, and fill the reaches of Heaven. But no other angel would ever comprehend the depths of love. Israfel had known love of the most exquisite kind, an immense and tragic love. His lute would spill forth such music few could truly understand. 

That is, if his heartstrings weren't broken.

_Christine, I love you ... _

Israfel reached out and touched the cadaverous hand. It was growing cold.

"Go back, Azrael," he said through his tears.

"But Israfel—"

"There is one last thing I must do," Israfel said softly. He opened the dead hand, and removed the tiny object that had been tightly clutched there.

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He knelt upon the ground. He had visited here many times in life, but he knew this would be his last. Gently, he laid the rose upon the cold stone, the only color in such a dead setting - vibrant crimson upon grey, tied with a black ribbon. Woven into the ribbon, a glittering diamond ring. Israfel bowed his head, and sang, "_Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do … There will never be a day when I won't think of you._" 

Just then, he heard a car approaching. Israfel didn't budge. He was invisible, after all. He watched silently as Raoul de Chagny mournfully placed his old Persian music box on Christine's grave. Israfel sighed tremulously and turned away. As the old Vicomte noticed the rose, the retreating angel spread his wings wide and rose from the earth.

An echo of a song rang in Raoul's ears:

_Christine spoke of an Angel ... _

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Please review, and, if you enjoyed my twist on the classic _Phantom of the Opera_ tale, be sure to read my ghostly mystery, "Haunted." _Merci beaucoup!_ - Hriviel. 


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